


The Spirit Is Willing, But The Flesh Is Weak

by Inspectre



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Religious Content, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspectre/pseuds/Inspectre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their journey back to the lands of the Vikings, a recently captured Athelstan tries to come to terms with the attentions of Ragnar Lothbrok and what it means for his faith.  When Rollo interferes, Ragnar attempts to comfort Athelstan, but sinful comfort is little comfort at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit Is Willing, But The Flesh Is Weak

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to deHavilland, who ordered me to write fic while she was out today. It's also my first ever slash fic and probably means that I am going straight to hell. Thanks for reading!

Athelstan thought he understood urges. The temptation of sin was an ever present danger in life, and especially so for those who tried to live their lives according to the Word of God. Warnings against temptation and sin were a regular fixture of Father Cuthbert’s daily sermons at the abbey. They were rarely mentioned in any specific sense or detail, only ever in the abstract – perhaps he did not want to give ideas to those who were struggling with temptation? - but the abstract had always proven enough for the young Saxon. He prayed often to resist temptation, to live a life without sin and he had managed to remain strong against any impure urges. 

Until now. 

But was it a sin if you were powerless to resist? That it was not a choice you had made to be involved in sinful acts but were dragged into nevertheless? None of the sermons had covered that. Athelstan had not acted on an urge, he had been forced into the depraved sin of another. 

But had he? Had he been truly powerless to resist?

He hadn’t fought Ragnar off. The first time, he had been paralysed with a fear that was aggravated by the sight of the Norseman’s dagger forcing him to keep quiet and submit to what was being done to him. He had continued to justify his inaction by telling himself that if he struggled, he would be overpowered by the Norseman. That there was nothing he could do with his hands tied by the coarse rope that bit into his skin. That even if he somehow managed to escape Ragnar, he was trapped on a boat with nowhere to go. That no matter what they had said about him being of value to them, these were the savages who had slain every monk in the abbey that they had not taken as a slave without a second thought, and who would not hesitate to send him to the same fate.

And so, he did not fight back. 

Ragnar may have taken him in the Norseman’s comparatively private territory in the prow of the boat, dragging him away from where he was usually kept with the rest of the captured monks, but Athelstan was under little illusion that nobody had noticed. Mercifully, none of his brothers had said anything of the matter and he tried to pretend that nobody noticed the mark of Cain that was now upon him. Just as he did not say anything at night, when the sounds of whimpering around him were likely due to more than mere nightmares on the part of his brothers and the presence of other Vikings far from coincidental.

The Norsemen were not so inclined to pretend however. They seemed to have little understanding of such acts as sinful or wrong, on Ragnar’s part at least. His actions seemed to evoke little notice, but Athelstan’s unwilling part in them earned him the mocking attention of the other Vikings. Many of them leered at him and shouted comments he could not make sense of - no doubt vulgar terms that he had no reason to have come across when learning the Norse tongue on his travels - but the obscene gestures that accompanied them ensured little doubt of what the subject was. “Not a man” was one of the few things he could understand. That he was no willing participant in these sins meant nothing to them. Ashamed, Athelstan retreated further and further into the hood of his cowl and stared resolutely at the wooden planks on the bottom of the boat, unwilling and unable to make eye contact with anyone. 

At times like these, wracked with guilt, he wondered whether he did the right thing in begging Ragnar for his life back at the Abbey. Christian martyrs were celebrated. He should have been honoured to have given up his life in the service of his Lord. And that same fact should have driven him to resist the Viking, even if it meant his death. If this was a test sent by God, then surely it was one that Athelstan was failing.

But what really had Athelstan questioning whether he had been inadvertently dragged into committing sin was not his lack of resistance to Ragnar, but of his own reaction to the unwelcome invasion. At first, the shock and the pain of having his body abused was the dominant sensation, overpowering all other feelings. But now, after several days of this, his body was becoming accustomed to the intrusion. And as the pain slowly left him, it was increasingly being replaced by something else.

Urges. Temptation. Desire.

Ragnar was filling his body mercilessly, but somehow, in the process, his unrelenting penetration was hitting some spot within Athelstan that forced actual pleasure upon him. Not only did it provoke this disgusting pleasure, but it left him hard and made him ache with need when Ragnar finally withdrew. 

He did not want this. He only wished to be free of these disgusting savages. He wanted no part in their sinful ways. But his body betrayed him.

His shameful arousal was mercifully hidden in his robes when he was thrown back with the other monks, but he was convinced the signs of his guilt must be clear on his face.

The last time had been the worst. Athelstan had been dwelling on this, praying for God to forgive him and to rid his body of these sinful feelings. But thinking of it, even in prayer, forced him to remember them, and by the time Ragnar grabbed the leash tied round his neck and pulled him towards the prow once more and forced him down onto the hard wood of the boat, Athelstan’s cock was soon twitching against his will. He bit his lip so hard that he drew blood to stop him from crying out, anything to deny the hideous lust born out of frustration as the Norseman used him over and over.

This time, however, he was not to be left frustrated.

It was humiliating, something which he had not experienced since adolescence, and never while conscious. The lack of control over his body, even as he willed it not to give in, whispering prayers to Christ and all his Saints to deliver him from this hellish torment, left him silently trying to hold back tears before they dropped onto his bound hands, as he was driven over the edge by the feeling of the Viking inside him.

How could it have happened? There was nothing in him that wanted this. He would swear on everything that he held sacred that he had resisted temptation, that he had not given into the base urges that drove men to such things. And yet, his body had.

Athelstan’s introspection was disturbed by a shadow that fell across him.

Looking up, he saw the long haired Viking who had smashed the crucifix after being told not to kill him. “Rollo” he had heard the others call him. Ragnar’s brother.

“Get up, Priest”

He did not give Athelstan so much as a moment before reaching down to haul the monk to his feet with a twisted smile of amusement that did not disappear when he was interrupted.

“Rollo, what are you doing?”

“You said we were all equal on this journey Ragnar. So you have not claimed this one for you alone. I want to see if my brother’s whore is worth so much attention. Is that a problem?”

Whore. That was one Norse word that he was familiar with, a legacy of spreading the word of God in seaports. Was that what he was now? Something to be used at their will?

There was a moment of silence. The nearest Viking to Athelstan had turned in his seat at the oar to watch Ragnar’s reaction. Evidently, this was a matter of more than just carnal significance.

Athelstan was conflicted. Would Ragnar step in and stop his brother? It was true that, since Ragnar had first claimed him, the other Vikings tended to stay away from him beyond their mockery, confining their physical attentions to the other monks. Did he want Ragnar to get involved?

It might save him from being forced to submit to Rollo, but at what cost? Would that not imply some sort of connection between Athelstan and this demon who saved him from death only to torment him? Would such a wish on Athelstan’s part be acceptance of the sin that was forced upon him?

The decision, however, was not to be made by him.

“Do as you will” Ragnar answered casually, and turned away once more to converse with Floki, leaving the monk in the hands of his brother.

Rollo was not so fussy as to drag him from where he was among the other monks. Instead, he threw Athelstan roughly on to the deck, yanked his robe up and his thighs apart and drove into him before he could utter a noise of protest.

It was quick, and it was brutal. Rollo did not make as much effort to prepare him with his fingers as Ragnar did, impatient to be inside the monk. It hurt. And it was made far worse by the shame of knowing it was happening in front of his brothers and the rest of the Viking crew. There was a small mercy in that the pain dulled the increasingly familiar pleasure that Ragnar dragged out of the unwilling Athelstan, but it made only the smallest bit of difference. 

Once again, he prayed to God for any sort of intervention. But none came.

Rather than spill his seed inside Athelstan, as Ragnar invariably did, Rollo pulled out as he was approaching climax and quickly jerked himself to completion. Before Athelstan could move, he spent himself all across the monk’s back where it stuck to his cowl.

As a final insult, Rollo bent over the monk’s cowering form, leaned in close to his ear and whispered “I don’t know why he wastes his time with you, whore”. 

And then, finally, he left Athelstan alone.

He could not look up, not for fear of seeing the eyes of another, Viking or Saxon, upon his wretched form. Shoving his robe around him as quickly as he could, Athelstan curled up in a ball against the side of the boat, pulled his hood over his face and closed his eyes. Not that sleep would come to him. His body was wracked with silent sobs and he drew his simple cross up to his mouth to kiss in the hope it would bring him the slightest bit of solace. He muttered rosaries to himself in a whisper, continually interrupted as he tried to choke back moans of pain and misery.

It was several hours later, when most were settled in for the night, when Ragnar came to him.

This time he did not drag Athelstan, merely tugging on his leash and trusting that the monk had learnt by now to know what was expected of him. And Athelstan, wretched creature that he felt, followed. 

Perhaps it was because he did not want to make a scene that would draw attention to his sin. Perhaps, after Rollo’s actions earlier, he did not have the physical strength to resist. Perhaps they were finally breaking his spirit after all.

Ragnar did not immediately push him down to the floor as he usually did. He stood facing the monk, and removed the hood of Athelstan’s cowl, his hand lingering ever so slightly in the dark curls on the side of his head. Though it had been hours since Rollo had claimed him, the monk still had tears rolling down his cheeks and trembled in the presence of the Norseman.

“Are you hurt?” the Viking asked in a quiet voice, the first words he had said to Athelstan directly since they had set off from England.

He did not know how to answer. There had been some physical pain, yes. Knees and hands were grazed where Rollo had pushed him down onto the deck. Bruises were forming on his thighs where strong hands had pulled his thighs apart forcefully. His arse still ached from Rollo’s rough penetration. But the physical pain was only a small element of what he truly felt. 

Guilt. Doubt. Humiliation. Self-loathing. Weakness. Fear. Shame.

What did it even matter to Ragnar anyway? It was not like he had shown any concern for Athelstan’s pain before, when it had been him forcing the monk into degradation and sin. Was he just asking to make sure his goods weren’t damaged? That his whore had not been spoiled?

Ragnar evidently got what he wanted from the silence and did not press him for an answer. 

Instead, he put his hands on Athelstan’s shoulders, moving him to the deck, more gently than before, but still firm. Unusually, he did not immediately move to turn Athelstan over into his preferred position in which to take the monk. Athelstan’s eyes flicked up in surprise and met Ragnar’s icy blue gaze. It was the first time Ragnar had really looked at him, man to man, since deciding to spare his life. A decision Athelstan was not certain that he didn’t regret Ragnar making now.

Ragnar’s expression was unreadable. Athelstan’s one of fear and pain. They remained there for a moment, silently staring at each other, before Ragnar seemed to shake himself out of it and guided Athelstan to where he wanted him. Once more, he enacted what seemed to be almost a daily ritual for him, without the ceremony or spiritual joy that Athelstan was used to feeling in conjunction with a religious rite. Athelstan felt the bottom of his robe raise, baring his bruised skin to the cold sea air. And then the familiar hands, spreading him wide, as he winced noticeably whenever the Viking moved close to the places Rollo’s hands had left aching red marks on his skin.

Ragnar paused for a moment. Suddenly Athelstan was aware of a hand on the side of his head, running through the curls that surrounded his tonsure. Once he realised that it was Ragnar touching him so delicately, he was conflicted. He wanted to flinch away, wanted to resist. And yet, after all that had happened, his wounded soul cried out for even the slightest bit of comfort.

This gentler side to the Viking was even worse. A mockery of affection. Another test sent to tempt him. He could not give in to his urges. He must master them and reject the sin they represented.

Again, he felt fingers press into him, preparing him for what was to come. Disgusted, he could feel them probing, searching inside of him, seeking out those same spots that had before caused his humiliating arousal. 

Athelstan started to panic now. At least, on previous days, he had largely been left to lie in the belly of the boat, alone with his thoughts and his cross and his prayers. But today, he had been wracked with doubts over the sin he had been dragged into, over whether he had done enough to resist temptation or whether he was now doomed to eternal damnation. He had prayed so hard and yet he suffered still, as the Lord tested him as never before. Then he had been used by Rollo, branded as a whore, as if being used for another man’s pleasure was something he had willingly invited. And now, he was forced to submit once more to Ragnar, but with this ridiculous charade of kindness adding insult to injury.

His breathing was running out of control, quick and shallow breaths interrupted by the occasional deep gulp when he was forced to gasp for air. He could not, would not, allow his body to submit to temptation and lust. Not again.

It was then that he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It squeezed once. Then, slowly, through his cowl, he could feel a strong thumb stroking circles. 

Another attempt at comfort.

The shock and confusion over the Viking’s strange actions startled him out of his panic for a moment as he tried to understand what was going on.

Athelstan tried to take deep breaths, to gather his thoughts, to work out how to react to this uncharacteristic softness, to show that it was just as unwelcome as the rough rape.

Ragnar, perhaps sensing this change in his breathing, apparently judged him calm enough, and eased into him once again. 

It was slower this time. Still firm, but calmer.

The positioning was also different. Ragnar was pressed over his back now. Athelstan could feel the hitches in his breath as Ragnar pushed into him. And he still kept that hand on his shoulder, stroking and stroking with maddening tenderness.

Ragnar had only seemed to consider his own sinful pleasure before. Why was he now forcing Athelstan to suffer this hideous mockery?

But the worst was yet to come.

The Viking reached between Athelstan’s thighs and grabbed the monk’s stiffening cock.

No.

To be touched there in lust was the worst feeling of all.

He tried to pull free. But Ragnar’s huge strong body was on top of him, pinning him in place.

Unable to move in any significant manner, he could not shake off the strong and powerful hand as it moved on him in long steady strokes, evidently practiced in this action. Faster and faster. He gasped as the sensations washed over him, pleasure mounting regardless of his best attempts at willing it to cease. Until, with a muffled cry, Athelstan felt himself erupt.

He lay still, sobbing into the ropes that bound him even as they grated against his face, until Ragnar finished. 

The Viking gasped above him. Slowly, as Ragnar composed himself, he reached out once more, delicately and tenderly running his hands through Athelstan’s hair, stroking them gently, almost affectionately.

This time, even when still pressed underneath the Norseman, he couldn’t stop the flinch.

Ragnar stiffened, and then withdrew completely, his huge weight lifting off Athelstan. 

He growled a single word. 

“Go.”

Shocked and trembling, Athelstan stumbled back to his place against the side of the boat. Drawing his robe and hood around him, for warmth, for what little comfort they could provide, and as a vain barrier against the outside world, he repeated the words. They had not yet saved him, but it seemed his only option of escaping this hell.

“Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil, for thine is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen”


End file.
